


Found

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Dates, Gen, M/M, first kiss., first touch, telling the parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 16:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6057487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First times. So much one of my favorite things to reimagine. This time deals as much with family issues as with the first date--because sometimes that's where you have to go to properly begin things.</p><p>I hope you like it. It's very spare and quiet. I'm pleased--but I like these romantic little grace notes that barely do more than doodle a bit of love on the air and disappear with a sigh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found

“I’ve finally found someone,” Mycroft said to Mummy and Father.

It was halfway through teatime on a Saturday. Mycroft had taken the train up from London to the Dower House. He did so regularly, for a mix of motives. Duty, of course. A good son visited his parents. Fear? Yes, that too. They were getting no younger, and day by day he could feel time ticking. Someday soon he would be an orphan. Guilt? Yes. For too many things. For being unable to convince Sherlock to come. For being unable to make all their dreams for their boys work out properly. For Sherlock’s addiction, which he was unable to cure. For Sherlock’s anger, which he was unable to ameliorate. For his own resentment—an anger he could barely face, that they had loved Sherlock more than him for all the years since Sherlock had been born. Once he had believed that the unfairness of it mattered. Over time he had come to see it did not. He knew now, as he had not as a boy, how little anyone had choice in these things.

He took a cream scone and split it, layering on honey beaten with butter. Mummy made it for a special treat, sometimes, blending it in the smaller cup of her kitchen blender.

“More tea?” she asked, not meeting his eyes. Her hands shook. Father looked into the bowl of his cup.

“Perhaps one cup,” Mycroft said.

His sexuality was a wound that never healed, though Mummy and Father had long ago come to terms with it. They were not unkind. They were not unable to accept. But the night Sherlock had revealed it, in anger, in malice, in smug conviction that his “deduction” was his victory…

That night would never be undone. It could only be forgiven, never forgotten. It was eternal, now—a crystalized moment in which the Holmes family, in all its strengths and weaknesses, had been displayed in perfect, painful honesty.

“It’s not settled, yet,” Mycroft said, then gave a dry laugh. “No—I should be more exact. I haven’t even properly begun a courtship. But—he’s single. He’s…available. To me, I mean—he’s bisexual. I think he’s interested. I know he cares.”

“Good,” Father said, his voice perhaps too bluff and supportive. But how can you blame a loving father for trying? “Good. Is he a good man?”

“The best.”

“Handsome?” Count on Mummy to want to know. Mycroft smiled, and nodded.

“You’ve met him,” he said, ignoring the shake of his hands. “Inspector Lestrade.”

“Sherlock’s Lestrade?” Mummy said, voice surprised…then stopped with an audible vocal click as she realized what she’d said. “I’m sorry. I mean—I put that rather badly, didn’t I?”

Mycroft looked up, then, and their eyes met. In that instant he was able to love her for her good wishes, her honest regrets, her wry laughter. “Perhaps a bit,” he said. “But never mind. Yes—Sherlock’s Lestrade.”

“Will Sherlock be hurt?”

“I don’t think so. If he is—we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. First I think it might be best to discover if Lestrade’s willing to love me.” Mycroft’s voice, then, quavered.

He pretended he did not know.

“He’s a good man,” Father said, suddenly firm and strong and kind—the good father of Mycroft’s youngest memories. When he was very little he’d known: when you have a problem, you go to Mummy and she will help you solve it. When you have a hurt, though, go to Father, and he will ease the pain. “He’s a good man. A kind man. You’ve picked well. I hope he loves you back.”

“Me, too.” Mycroft himself staggered between fragile hope and raw terror. But… “I think he does. I hope he does.”

“Well—when are you going to settle it?” Mummy asked, eyes twinkling. “You can’t drag your feet forever. How long have you known the man?”

“Over a decade,” Mycroft admitted.

“And how long have you loved him?”

He ducked his head. “Almost a decade. But it took rather a long time to admit it. Longer to know what to do. He was married. And there was Sherlock.”

“Now he’s single, and Sherlock’s a big boy. Best be getting on with things.” Mummy nodded, then took a scone herself, layered it with honey without bothering to split it, and ate it in a single sticky munch. She cleared her mouth with a cup of tea. “I expect to hear within the week that you’ve at least made a start.”

“My dear—he’s a grown man,” Father protested, in the loving, exasperated voice of a man with long years of experience with this woman.

“And I’m his mum,” she said. “I’m allowed to push a bit. It’s one of the few side benefits of labor.”

The three laughed, then, because that’s what Holmeses did when Mummy started making jokes. It was one of the rules. They finished their tea in amiable good will. Mycroft helped clean up after, drying the dishes while Mummy washed and Father put things away. He took the train back down to London that night.

Lying in his bed, in clean pajamas, he collected his mobile. He stared at it for a time. At last he turned it on and dialed Lestrade’s number. It rang—once, twice, three times, four—then Lestrade answered.

“Oi, Mike. Wha’s up, mate? Late for a case. Problems? Rumors of an attack?”

“No—no. Nothing like that. Back in London from a visit to my parents.”

There was silence at the end of the line. It was not the sort of thing the two generally discussed. “Well,” Lestrade said at last, sounding bewildered. “That’s nice, then. Good trip?”

“Perfectly pleasant. I was wondering….could I perhaps invite you to mine tomorrow, for dinner?”

His voice shook. He hated that it shook. He felt an utter idiot.

Lestrade paused, then said, cautiously, “Dinner. Like—dinner-dinner? I mean, is this like we order a pizza and watch a game and discuss old cases and drink beer, or… I mean… It’s just it sounds….”

“Dinner,” Mycroft said, cutting in. “Just like it sounds. A dinner. I’ll make something. We can do whatever you like after. But not pizza and not a game and not…. It’s not just blokes.” He closed his eyes, hating the vocabulary. “A date.”

Again the silence played out. At last Lestrade spoke, his voice very still and controlled. “Aye. Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I could  come on over. See how things go.”

“That would be wonderful. Perhaps sevenish?”

“Aye, sevenish is good for me. Should I bring anything? Wine? Bread?”

“Yourself would be sufficient. Do you like anything in particular? Steak? Fish?”

“I daresay if I said lobster you’d give me a boatload.”

“I suspect you’re right.”

“Lamb chops,” Lestrade said, abruptly. “I like lamb chops. The fancy little ones only a bloody millionaire can afford. Haven’t had real, good loin chops since I don’t know when. Good salad. Bit of steamed veg. Got a bit of a sweet-tooth—I like my afters. There—does that help?”

Mycroft found himself smiling—even chuckling. “Quite. Consider the order placed.”

“Well, then. Tomorrow. Sevenish.”

“Yes.” They both paused. “I suppose that’s good night, then?”

“Yeah. Sure. Ta, then.”

Lestrade hung up.

Mycroft, lying in bed, smiled.

He spent Sunday shopping and cleaning and choosing what to wear. He put flowers on the table. He chose a good wine. He treated the loin chops simply, doing as little as he dared, letting them speak for themselves. He bought a very good treacle tart for afters. He wore a good pair of wool trousers topped with a cotton shirt in a rosy check with a dark brown cashmere jumper. His hands shook when the doorbell rang and he opened the door for Lestrade to come in.

Lestrade was Lestrade. He’d worn clean, crisp chinos, a sports jacket, and a blue and white shirt that reminded Mycroft of Japanese rice bowls. “You told me not to bring anything,” he said to Mycroft uneasily. “I took you at your word.”

“Good,” Mycroft said. “Good. I’m glad you came.” A stupid grin blossomed on his face—soon matched by a goofy grin on Lestrade’s. “I’m glad you came,” he said again. Then, without planning, without intent, he found himself reaching out, one finger tracing the line of one of Lestrade’s eyebrows. “Glad,” he murmured.

Lestrade’s breath caught…then he leaned in, slipped a hand around the nape of Mycroft’s neck, and collected a slow, exploratory kiss.

When they drew back, it was settled between them. They smiled, knowing that it might be that night, or later that week, or a month from now—but a bedroom was, at some point, a sure thing. In the meantime—

“I should get the chops on the grill,” Mycroft said. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen and keep me company and I’ll tell you about my weekend.”

“I can do that,” Lestrade said, following his host. “What did you do?”

Mycroft smiled, and said smugly, “I told my parents I've finally found someone.”

 


End file.
